


Anterograde

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Anal Sex, Drug Use, First Time, Kink Meme, M/M, Porn Video, Rimming, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you saying you wanted to have sex with the statue?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anterograde

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Anterógrada](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2548562) by [Ertal77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ertal77/pseuds/Ertal77)



A/N: This is a fill for [a prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31954263#t31954263): “Sherlock wonders what it would be like to see him and John having sex without either of them having memories of the experience…” (Follow the link to read the entire prompt.)  
   
The drug used here, Trazolam, is fictional, but is based on benzodiazepines with similar effects, such as Flunitrazepam (aka roofies). DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, and so on.  
   
Aaaaaaaand finally, for those of you who are interested, [here is a picture](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_RmMR73Ptdpw/S_eg4RQUbAI/AAAAAAAAHJM/DyEe7TWHO6A/s1600/DSC_0016.jpg) of the statue that is mentioned in the fic.  
   
   
 

   
The first grunt John uttered was one of effort; the second one was for the embarrassment. “It’s too slippery, I can’t--”  
   
“John, just grab me.”  
   
Looming over John, Sherlock thrust his arm out, and John reluctantly clutched it at the wrist. When he did, his balance shifted, and he gasped as the ball of his right foot could no longer keep its grip on the narrow lower ledge. He twisted and took the corner of the upper ledge in the ribs, but Sherlock held him steady, and after his third try, John managed to heave himself onto the pedestal.  
   
“Shit, I’m going to fall again. My damn leg--” John’s final surge of effort nearly got him a chipped tooth, as his face swung perilously close to a giant bronze toe.  
   
“This is stupid,” he panted. “Why are we up here?”  
   
Sherlock scanned the crowd below, replying, “I’ve been following the disappearances of some young women in London over the last six months. After doing a little digging, I’ve discovered that four of the women were frequenting internet dating sites in the weeks or months leading up to their disappearance. I chatted with the sister of one of those four, who had reported the disappearance to the police as a kidnapping. The victim told the sister what the itinerary of the date would be, in case something happened.”  
   
“Like, for instance, if her date turned out to be a serial kidnapper?”  
   
“Precisely. Didn’t have the foresight to give the sister any identifying details about the man himself, though.”  
   
“And let me guess -- though I admit my powers of deduction are not as razor-sharp as yours, I’ll have a go -- the woman was to meet her date here?”  
   
“Yes. Specifically, in front of this fountain.”  
   
“Ah. So presumably, we’re sat up here with the lion so that we can have a better vantage point, and not so we can hand a camera down to an unsuspecting stranger and giggle while we ask them in broken English to take our photograph.”  
   
Sherlock pulled out his phone. “We can do that also, if you like.”  
   
“No, no, not necessary.”  
   
Some children climbed effortlessly onto the ledge, and frolicked on and about the lion for a while. Sherlock ignored them. “Friday and Saturday nights were when the other women disappeared,” he said. “Which makes sense, as those are the most likely times to meet for a date.”  
   
John attempted to recline in the same languid and seemingly comfortable way that Sherlock was, to no avail. “Lots of people meet here, though. How can we tell if one of the meet-ups is a kidnapping?”  
   
“I suppose it wouldn’t be obvious to someone who is only looking, and not _observing_.”  
   
“Ah, yes. But we’ve established that I’m no good at the observing bit. Can I be excused?”  
   
“No. I need you for the running bit and possibly the shooting bit.”  
   
“I’m missing the series finale of Doctor Who.”  
   
“It’s that same episode that was on last month.”  
   
“Yes, and when it was on last month, I was hanging off someone’s laundry line in Limehouse while you were in a knife-fight with a police sergeant.”  
   
“He wasn’t actually--”  
   
“I know he wasn’t actually a police sergeant. The point is, the next day Sarah spoiled the big surprise ending for me.”  
   
“Then you shouldn’t feel the need to watch the episode anymore. Oh come John, don’t sulk. I’ll buy you a TiVo. Now will you please just help me?”  
   
“What am I looking for? _Who_ am I looking for?”  
   
Sherlock went into great detail about every facet of his theory pertaining to the kidnapper’s intellect, habits, hobbies, occupation -- everything except what he might actually _look_ like. When Sherlock lapsed into silence, John tried to pick out faces in the crowd, examine them, watch their movements, but he just didn’t have Sherlock’s ability to ward off every little distraction. He often found himself watching the seconds tick by on the Olympic countdown clock.  
   
When he saw a dodgy-looking fellow fidgeting by the fountain, he pointed him out to Sherlock.  
   
“No,” Sherlock said, without hesitation.  
   
“Look at him. Ill-fitting clothes, squirmy and creepy. You don’t think he looks like a kidnapper?”  
   
“Maybe to someone whose cataract surgery isn’t until next week.”  
   
John sighed and went back to staring at the countdown. Minutes passed in silence. He said, “We would probably be less likely to arouse suspicion if we were chatting, rather than staring silently at the crowd.”  
   
“What shall we talk about?”  
   
“Dunno,” said John. For several more minutes, John tried to decide whether he wished their conversation to be inane, profound, informative, or provocative. Finally, he said, “D’you ever wonder what it would be like if we had sex?”  
   
John was not sure precisely what he expected to hear in response, but it was not what Sherlock said, which was, “All the time.” When John turned to look at him, Sherlock had on his _Yes, I’m being perfectly serious_ face.  
   
“Why’ve you never said anything?”  
   
“I knew you thought about it all the time, as well. I decided it would be better to wait for you to bring it up.”  
   
“How long have you felt this way? Jesus, think of all the time we’ve wasted.”  
   
Sherlock rolled his head dismissively from side to side against the lion’s neck. “I didn’t say I was waiting for you to bring it up so I could immediately leap into bed with you. I was waiting for you to bring it up so we could discuss it. Sex is not something to be taken lightly. It could destroy our friendship. Especially if one of us turns out to be particularly bad at it.”  
   
“So it’s risky,” John said. “You like taking risks.”  
   
“I like taking on _intellectual challenges_.”  
   
“You don’t think sex is intellectual?”  
   
“The decision to have sex with you, or not to, is not an intellectual exercise. It is…” Sherlock twirled his hand, searching for a word.  
   
“Emotional?”  
   
“I was trying to decide between ‘tangible’ and ‘consequential,’ but your term is not entirely inapplicable.”  
   
“So let’s say we have sex and it turns out not to be a good idea. Can’t you just delete it?”  
   
“Number one, _you_ wouldn’t be able to delete it. Number two…I might not be able to, either.”  
   
John considered himself to be a thoughtful, mature adult, but that the idea of them having sex had crossed Sherlock’s mind at all had opened a door that John refused to let close so easily. “Honestly, what’s the worst that coul--”  
   
Sherlock put a silencing hand on John’s arm. “I believe that’s him.”  
   
John looked to the fountain, where a handsome man was coyly handing a frowsy brunette a single rose.  
   
Sherlock leered at his newfound prey, even as it was leering at _its_ prey. “That’s him.”  
   
“So what do we do?”  
   
Sherlock watched the pair wander off, then moved to slide down off the ledge. “We save some lives and you blog inanely about it later. Really, you should know these things by now.”  
   
   


*****

   
   
Sherlock turned the bottle over in his hand. “Trazolam,” he read.  
   
“It’s a benzodiazepine derivative,” John started to explain.  
   
“I know a benzodiazepine derivative when I see one,” Sherlock said. “Causes anterograde amnesia. They used to administer this to upper-class women in labour. Very trendy, mid-century. Didn’t dull the pain, but the mothers couldn’t remember a thing afterward. I once had a case where a jewel thief would take Trazolam just before his robberies. It had a calming effect, and then he couldn’t remember the committing the crime, so it was no good trying to interrogate him about it.”  
   
“Have you ever taken it?” John asked.  
   
“I don’t remember having taken any,” said Sherlock, and his delivery was so flat, John couldn’t tell if he was trying to be witty.  
   
John croaked, “So I was--” He cleared his throat. “I was thinking we could take it together.”  
   
Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “For what purpose? Oh! The sex.”  
   
John took the bottle from Sherlock’s hands, gesturing gently with it as he made his proposal. “We can take this, and then have sex, and afterwards decide if it was the most horrible idea we’ve ever had. If it is, we’ll just clean up and go to sleep, and when we wake up, we’ll have no memory of having done it. I mean, we’ll know that we did it, but we won’t remember the gory details.”  
   
Sherlock continued the line of thinking. “But if we decide we did the right thing, we can leave a message to ourselves, to find the next day, that says we should do it again, properly. John, you’re brilliant.”  
   
“Oh, I’m more brilliant than that.” John dipped back into his briefcase and came up with a video camera. “Bought this with some of my share of the money from the Stafford-Wilkes case. We can film ourselves. Then, if it’s bad, we erase it. But if it’s good, we can _watch_ it.”  
   
Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Genius. You’re a genius.” Unable to leave any gadget alone that was within thirty feet of him, Sherlock plucked the video camera from John’s hands and proceeded to fiddle with it for ten minutes, ignoring John except to make short test films of him occasionally.  
   
“By the way,” Sherlock said as he leaned close to document the pulse of John’s carotid artery. “Where did the Trazolam come from?”  
   
“Don’t worry about that.”  
   
“Did you steal it from the dispensary? Or did you buy it off someone who stole it from a dispensary?”  
   
“What did we agree on before? We do not dwell on things I do for you that are immoral or illegal.”  
   
“Fair enough…You know, the resolution on this camera is astounding. What is this, eight megapixels? The detail on this movie we’re making will be exquisite.” Sherlock pulled the cords out of the briefcase so he could connect it to John’s laptop; he wanted to see his test films on a larger screen. “Not a thing left to the imagination. We’ll be able to see every…John? Where are you going?”  
   
John sighed and reached for his keys and his coat. “To the gym, I reckon.”

   
   
*****

   
   
John awoke from a nightmare about suffocating to find that he actually was suffocating. His lungs burned for air as his neck was squeezed by something heavy, slithering, and powerfully muscled. Bit warm for a python, though. Oh. It was Sherlock’s arm.  
   
“Sherlock,” John squeaked. Sherlock snored and hugged John closer.  
   
In wrestling his way out of Sherlock’s sleeping grip, John rolled off the bed and crashed to the floor, gasping.  
   
What the hell was Sherlock doing in his bed?  
   
Ah well, stranger things had happened. John righted himself and staggered toward the door. When he opened it, it thumped against something. John stared down with unfocused eyes until he located and identified the object. It was a video camera. Attached to it was a sticky note, with one word, written in large capital letters: YES.  
   
John clutched the camera to him like a treasure. _Yes._  
   
   


*****

   
   
“You didn’t sneak a look at it, did you?”  
   
“No. Did you?”  
   
Sherlock checked the ends of the USB cable, to see which way the camera would connect to the television. “No. I transferred a backup of the file to the computer, but I didn’t spot-check it like I usually do. I saw the first frame and the last, but all that revealed was me, alone, naked, in the bed. I’ve seen _that_ before.”  
   
“Good to know.”  
   
Having connected the cable, Sherlock turned back to look accusingly at John. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
   
“Nothing. Just, when I first met you, my initial impression was, ‘This is a bloke who either tries to get a leg over on everything that moves, or else he’s never naked, not even in the shower.’”  
   
Sherlock said only, “Hmm.” But it was the “hmm” that meant _Demonstrating once again your inadequate powers of deduction_.  
   
“I wasn’t so far off,” John said, as Sherlock plunked down next to him on the sofa. “‘Not even naked in the shower’ is at the far end of the spectrum, but you’re pretty close to there.”  
   
“Not anymore,” Sherlock said, nodding toward the screen.  
   
John suddenly found the dimensions of the television intimidating. “Maybe we could just watch it on the laptop? The television screen is kind of…big.”  
   
“Don’t be ridiculous. And waste all those megapixels?” Sherlock handed John the remote control.  
   
“Wow. First you let me have sex with you, then you let me have the remote? Is there anything you don’t trust me with anymore?”  
   
“Your taste in music is still shit. If that makes you feel any better.”  
   
John’s thumb hovered over the little button on the remote with the triangle on it. “So it’s ready to go?”  
   
“All set, I should think.”  
   
“I just press the Play button?”  
   
“That’s the standard method for playing a video, yes.”  
   
John swallowed. “The Trazolam worked, you know. I really don’t remember a thing,” he said conversationally.  
   
“Nor do I,” said Sherlock. He didn’t mention that he had some residual soreness that belied the previous night’s activities.  
   
“Okay, so, here goes.” John winced and pressed the Play button.  
   
The first thing they saw was a naked and expectant-looking Sherlock, alone on the bed, staring eerily at the camera.  
   
It was not the first time John had seen Sherlock undressed, but it was the first time John had seen Sherlock undressed in this context. There had been times when Sherlock had been ill or injured, and needed to be bathed or have his wounds dressed or be snuck out of a hospital, and John had been a paragon of professionalism, unmoved by a flash of pink nipple made taut in the cool air, or a glimpse of soft, endearingly vulnerable private parts. But he was not Sherlock’s doctor at the moment, so he could savor without guilt the sight of those mile-long limbs shifting nervously, the smooth chest rising and falling with each anxious breath, the rippling of that abdomen, rendered flat instead of concave in Sherlock’s seated position. Sherlock’s mouth was slightly open, panting, as his eyes followed something off-camera.  
   
John was entranced. But when he slowly, reluctantly swiveled his head to observe Sherlock’s own reaction to the sight, he found only the usual impassive, analytic expression, and the spell was broken momentarily.  
   
After an initial shake and adjustment of the camera, John hove into view; the mattress dipped as he placed his knee on the bed. He took Sherlock’s chin in hand and tilted his head away from the camera, then said something that was too low to hear but looked like “Ready?” Sherlock nodded, then looked back at the camera. John grabbed his head in both hands now, turning it so it faced him instead. He leaned over Sherlock and began to kiss him tenderly. Sherlock seemed to be trying to recline further, lean back against the headboard, and John followed him, attempting with limited success to open Sherlock’s mouth with his own and slip his tongue inside. It must not have been obvious to John then -- though it certainly was now, watching it -- that Sherlock was already not enjoying himself. He cringed when the Sherlock on the screen put a palm against John’s chest and pushed him away.  
   
Sherlock, watching, had no comment.  
   
“Well, not everyone likes kissing,” John said, his voice skating between tentative and reassuring. On the screen, his video counterpart could be heard saying, “ _It’s alright. Not everyone likes kissing._ ”  
   
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Sherlock said casually. “When I was at Uni, someone once pushed me onto my bed and started kissing me. I was underneath them, just like I was there, and it felt like they were trying to smother me.”  
   
“I see.”  
   
“I avoided those sorts of situations after that. I assumed I had enough data about physical intimacy to write it off.”  
   
Hearing this made John squirmingly anxious. If Sherlock was put off just by kissing, how the hell could any of this have gone well? Why did they not erase this video? Why did they write a big “YES” on it? Maybe, the previous night, they’d decided to make themselves watch it just to reinforce how cripplingly awkward it was, in case they ever got any ideas about trying again. John steeled himself for the coming barrage of excruciating non-memories.  
   
Now the John on the screen pulled away from Sherlock and sat up, and was inviting Sherlock to do the same. When he saw the way screen-Sherlock budged himself up into a sitting position, John suddenly made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut.  
   
Sherlock’s kept his eyes on the video, but asked, “Are you alright?”  
   
“I...I’m fine. I just had a flashback, to a very...pivotal moment in my, er, development.”  
   
“Care to elaborate on that?”  
   
“Can I just...Here, let me pause this. Actually, wait, let me rewind it to watch that again, then let me pause it.” John hit the button on the remote, and Sherlock watched what John watched, but didn’t see what John saw. He was just propping himself up into a sitting position, but it provoked another little noise from John, though less intense this time.  
   
John paused the video and turned to face Sherlock. “Alright. When I was a teenager my parents took me to the V and A. There was this room full of sculptures there. I mean, there’s about eight rooms full of just sculptures at the V and A, but this one particular statue, it was of a man clubbing another man. At least, I think he had a club.”  
   
“If I’m thinking of the right statue, then it wasn’t a club, it was a jawbone. _Samson Slaying A Philistine,_ by Giovanni Bologna.”  
   
“Probably. Anyway, you know, the place had plenty of naked female statues, and those were nice to look at, but statues of women, they just stand there.”  
   
“Yes, statues tend to do that.”  
   
“I mean the poses. Female statues are just standing there, or maybe reclining, or if it’s something really thrilling, they’ll crouch, because they’ve been caught bathing or something. Even Britannia just holds her damned helmet and spear and does nothing. Male statues often just stand there as well, but this statue was really dynamic. Samson, I suppose it is, is grabbing the Philistine’s hair, and the Philistine is just squirming beneath him. The height of the pedestal being what it was, the Philistine’s thighs are right at eye level. So you get this close-up view of this lithe, struggling young male. He has one knee on the ground, and the other knee is up because the foot’s on the ground, like he’s trying to force himself back up. And carved into the marble, there were these creases, where his thigh was pressed to his trunk. It was like real flesh would crease. So...I’ve kind of lost my train of thought, but basically, that was the moment when I understood that I fancied blokes. I knew I still liked girls as well, but seeing that statue was so intense. It really made me feel...” John trailed off. He didn’t realize it until then, but his right hand was squeezing his thigh.  
   
Sherlock said, “Are you saying you wanted to have sex with the statue?”  
   
“I was sixteen.” John made a gesture of futility. “I wanted to have sex with _everything_.”  
   
“So when I sat up just then, the position I was in made you think of that statue.”  
   
“Yes. Yes.”  
   
Now the John and Sherlock on the screen were having a chat. Or rather, John was talking, and Sherlock was listening apprehensively. John tried turning the volume up, but he’d been too quiet; the recording hadn’t picked up his words. “What am I saying?”  
   
The question was intended to be rhetorical, just to fill the awkward silence, but Sherlock replied, “You’re obviously making a suggestion about what we could do next. I can’t tell what the suggestion is, just observing your body language here, but you seem terribly embarrassed about it.”  
   
On screen, Sherlock reluctantly stretched himself back out on the bed, turning so he was on his stomach. When he’d settled, John sat astride him and leaned down to plant gentle kisses along the nape of Sherlock’s neck and his shoulders. They watched quietly, each of them paying a somewhat different but equally rapt kind of attention. John, knowing his own habits, now understood exactly what he was about to try, but Sherlock had no clue.  
   
John continued his way down Sherlock’s back, kissing as he went. Trapped beneath John’s weight, Sherlock let the clutching of his fists and the curling of his toes indicate that he was enjoying himself more and more.  
   
Perhaps it was that extraordinary resolution that Sherlock had admired about the camera, or it might just have been John’s imagination. But he could really feel the quiet intimacy pouring out of the screen. However badly the kissing had gone, however disastrous his next move might prove to be, at least in between he had experienced this one intense, private moment with Sherlock, even if he did not remember it. He would have to find a way to isolate a clip of this moment, and watch it on a loop when Sherlock wasn’t around: The close warmth of John’s body covering Sherlock’s, the tiny, suggestively moist sounds of John’s kisses, the subtle adjustment of Sherlock’s hips as he began to get an erection.  
   
“You are gorgeous,” John said. “Look at you.”  
   
Sherlock said nothing. John wasn’t looking in his direction, so he could not see that the moment Sherlock had witnessed John essentially mounting him, he’d started digging the heel of his hand into his thigh, clenching and unclenching his fist in sympathy with his on-screen counterpart.  
   
John couldn’t help but smile wickedly as he watched himself moving slowly along Sherlock’s body, kissing down that spine, caressing those flanks, until his hands came to rest on each of Sherlock’s round and now slightly upturned buttocks. He spent moment shamelessly admiring those pliant curves, and took his time getting himself comfortable between Sherlock’s spread thighs. What he did next was not explicitly portrayed on screen, due to the angle, but it was quite apparent.  
   
With the kind of alarmed disgust he’d never expressed even at the sight of a week-old mutilated corpse, Sherlock groaned, “Oh my _God_ you’re eating my arse.”  
   
“What’s wrong with that?”  
   
“What’s _not_ wrong with that?”  
   
“Hey.” John pointed confidently at the screen. “That? Has never failed. It is everyone’s magic button. It doesn’t matter who it’s been, man or woman, I put my tongue on their perineum for five seconds and they were begging for my cock.”  
   
The implication that John was a man of plentiful experience irritated Sherlock. He didn’t like to think of his John sharing himself with anyone else, and he certainly didn’t like to think of himself as merely one in a long line of conquests. Though he supposed it should be some consolation that John would now be his and his alone, forever. He would make sure of that. For now, he couldn’t help but sneer, “So I suppose you thought the trick would work on me, as well, like I’m some ordinary idiot who would just start begging--”  
   
The Sherlock on the screen cut off his acerbic commentary with a lift of his head and a sudden cry of “ _Oh God, John, fuck me._ ”  
   
John chuckled. “You were saying?”  
   
“Nothing.”  
   
“No, no, you were saying something. Please continue.”  
   
“I was just--”  
   
“ _God, John, yes, oh._ ”  
   
“I was just--”  
   
John reached for the remote. “Wait just a moment, let me turn this up, I don’t want to miss any of it.”  
   
“ _Christ. Oh. Fuck me, fucking put it in me._ ”  
   
“Where did you learn to talk like that?” John said. “I thought you’d never...”  
   
“I _have_ never,” Sherlock insisted. “But crying out in sexual ecstasy is not brain surgery. I was probably just doing what I always do: saying what I was thinking.”  
   
John looked at Sherlock, then back at the television. Jesus. If Sherlock wasn’t sitting right there, maintaining that eerie composure, and if he himself didn’t have the self-control that he did, he would probably have jerked off six times by now.  
   
On the screen, John shifted so that he had one knee under him. It looked as though he were about to move to fulfill Sherlock’s repeated, plaintive request. When John had first laid on his belly, his cock had been soft, but now when he raised himself up, he had the most magnificent erection Sherlock had ever seen. It didn’t even need to be in close-up; from where the camera had been placed, from where he was now watching, it was mesmerising all the same. It wasn’t that it was big. It looked fairly average, in fact. But the way it jutted from John’s body, the angle of it, the perfect dusky pink of the shaft, the glistening head peeking from beneath the taut, velvety foreskin. And it wasn’t just a perfect structural specimen. It seemed to almost be fully integrated with John’s general demeanour, which was, at the moment, gentle but insistent. And when Sherlock’s on-screen counterpart saw it, he appeared equally enamoured.  
   
Of course, this might all have been a lot of rubbish; perhaps it was a perfectly ordinary penis with no inherent splendor, and Sherlock was only entranced by it by virtue of it belonging to John. Nonetheless, Sherlock couldn’t help but say aloud, “Christ, look at that prick. I maintain that I have never been a very sexual person, but if you had taken that out at Bart’s the day we met I would have known exactly what to do with it.”  
   
John found this amusing. “Yeah? What would you have done with it?”  
   
“Everything. Everywhere.”  
   
On the screen, John was straddling Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock was now sitting up with John’s cock in his hand at eye level, stroking it very slowly (at John’s apparent insistence) and reverently. He was turned just slightly, so the viewer could see his eyes darting up and down, his jaw flexing.  
   
John was laughing at the video now, even as his erection had begun to ache more than it felt good. “Look at you! You are in _agony_! You can’t wait to get it in you, but you can’t decide where you want to put it!”  
   
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “If you’d had three cocks it would have been much easier.”  
   
“Three?”  
   
“I would have thought of something to do with the third, alright? Stop mocking me.”  
   
“I’m not...” John trailed off when he saw what was now happening. Sherlock had made up his mind, apparently. There was no playful teasing with lips or tongue; John’s cock just went directly into Sherlock’s eager mouth.  
   
“I hope I did that right,” Sherlock said. “I’ve absorbed some theory, but I’ve no practical experience.”  
   
“I don’t appear to be having a problem with it at the moment.” John had to have a little smug chuckle to himself; Sherlock was demonstrating absolutely no subtlety or technique. He obviously just wanted John’s cock in his mouth, so he put it there. Not that there was anything wrong with unrestrained enthusiasm.  
   
Each of them had a different interpretation of what happened a few moments later. On-screen, John was gently pushing Sherlock’s head away. “Looks like I botched it after all,” Sherlock sighed.  
   
John tilted his head. “No, I reckon just the opposite. I probably wanted to put a stop to that because I was seconds away from coming.”  
   
“If that’s the case, then why would you want me to stop?”  
   
“Well, if the me of fourteen hours ago is anything like the me of right now, that’s not the way I wanted to finish.”  
   
“Ah.”  
   
They watched themselves getting rearranged again. This time, John rolled to the side to give Sherlock room to recline comfortably on his back. Sherlock’s knees were still demurely together; John gave them a nudge with one hand to part them. He helped Sherlock get situated just right, then kneeled between Sherlock’s legs. He slowly but firmly spread Sherlock’s thighs wide with both hands, slipping one hand between them. He ignored Sherlock’s twitching erection, instead caressing all the vulnerable parts beneath. After he murmured a few words, Sherlock reached out for a bottle on the bedside table, then handed it over to John. John pumped its clear, slippery fluid over two fingers. What he did next was obscured by Sherlock’s slightly raised knee, but could be easily read in Sherlock’s face.  
   
This being Sherlock’s first time, John knew there would be a psychological as well as a physiological element to this part. He expected to watch ten minutes, or fifteen, or more, of himself teasing Sherlock open. Not that that was a problem. But he was surprised when his on-screen counterpart moved on after a scant three or four minutes.  
   
“Seems like that went fairly quickly,” he remarked.  
   
“I spent some time by myself in the days leading up to this.”  
   
John couldn’t bear to take his eyes from the video, but leaned conspiratorially towards Sherlock. “When you say ‘by yourself’...”  
   
“I put my fingers in myself a few times, sort of to prepare for the inevitable.”  
   
The mental image of Sherlock trying to get his fingers in himself (in the shower? in his bed? knowing him, probably in the kitchen or something) made John’s cock jerk, but he also found it a bit silly. “You were training for this like it was the fucking Olympics.”  
   
John, in the video, was now slicking his cock, while Sherlock wriggled beneath him, his own cock curving strongly toward his belly. When John was ready to continue, he hauled one of Sherlock’s legs up on his shoulder, and gestured to encourage Sherlock to touch himself while being penetrated. “ _Not too much_ ,” John heard himself say, faintly. “ _I don’t want you to come yet, but it will make this go easier_.”  
   
With Sherlock’s leg up the way it was, the view of John pushing his way into Sherlock was nearly unobstructed. Sherlock twisted and instinctively tried to put his knees back together, his head whipping from side to side. He appeared to be in pain, but he was groaning, “ _Oh God, yes. Yes. Oh_.”  
   
After five minutes of watching Sherlock’s body curl and flex as John pushed into it, over and over, two things occurred to John:  
   
The first was how long they were both managing to last. For a first time, where both participants had been excruciatingly primed, five minutes was a long time.  
   
The second thing was just how devastatingly intimate this long, static shot of their lovemaking was. It was nothing like a porno film, with its close-ups that John would have needed a speculum and a table with stirrups to replicate. It was what sex actually looked like: Sherlock’s momentary reluctance to spread his legs, John trying not to grimace at the ache in his thighs as he angled himself to thrust into Sherlock in just the right way, the moments where no one was moaning and no skin was slapping together, and everything became quiet.  
   
Up until now, watching this video had been almost more than John could handle. But now that they’d reached this point, it wasn’t nearly enough. John cringed with regret that he had done this and had deliberately prevented himself from remembering it. He ached for the memory of penetrating Sherlock. These visuals were nice, but they weren’t the silky heat of Sherlock’s body, the pulse beating inside him, the grip of his thighs. But John knew he could not change the way they’d chosen to do this, so instead, more pragmatically, he wanted to shut the video off and start making proper memories immediately.  
   
He was about to make this suggestion, when it occurred to him that Sherlock had been watching for several minutes without comment. “You alright over there?” he asked. He imagined it must have been far stranger for Sherlock, having been the one whose body was intruded upon. “This hasn’t gotten too weird, has it?”  
   
Sherlock, of course, had been having a good think, and there was a tense moment, where the only sounds were the desperate wails coming from the television, before he made his final determination. He noticed how John willingly angled his body to provide Sherlock more pleasure, though it required additional effort and discomfort on his part. He watched John’s precise sense of timing, how he seemed to know when to murmur reassuringly in Sherlock’s ear, when to slow down or speed up, when to push Sherlock’s legs back so that he might penetrate more deeply. Sherlock’s observations pointed to John decidedly being an extraordinary lover, and the events of the previous night had not been a mistake.  
   
But he revealed none of those thoughts. Instead, he more succinctly replied, “You look like you’re there only to please me, and you don’t have a single other concern.”  
   
“Well, that’s how I am. Is that a problem?”  
   
Sherlock settled back a bit on the sofa. “Nope. Not. A problem. At all.”  
   
On screen, Sherlock’s helpless little cries suddenly changed in pitch and intensity, and both men were freshly riveted to the television. Sherlock’s skin was glowing with the sweat of his exertions. One of his hands was frantically (but also, somehow, gracefully) stroking his cock, the other was trying to decide where it wanted to clutch: the sheets, the pillow, or John. He twisted and writhed so hard, John had to make a quick grab for his hips, lest he slip away. One leg kicked uncontrollably. John had never seen someone come so hard. Well, obviously he _had_ , but…  
   
The first hard pulse of ejaculate actually hit the underside of Sherlock’s chin. It could be seen glistening there, slowly dripping down his neck. John thought, _There’s those eight megapixels, then_.  
   
“Jesus,” he said, “look how far you shot.”  
   
“Is that normal?”  
   
“Well, it’s not _abnormal_. But that is pretty fucking far.”  
   
On the screen, John looked down, groaned, and suddenly began to pound Sherlock harder.  
   
“Oh, I think I just saw what happened.” He watched himself ploughing Sherlock, every muscle taut save for his slack jaw. “Yeah, that’s about how I feel right now, seeing what you did, so I can imagine it’s how I felt then.”  
   
Suddenly Sherlock asked, “Do you want to go upstairs with me? Right now?”  
   
 _YES. YES. YES_. John swallowed. “Reckon there’s only a few more minutes of this. Let’s just finish it out.” He watched himself giving Sherlock a couple more hard thrusts before he stilled. He tried not to focus too much on the ridiculous contortion of his face. Sherlock had looked gorgeous when he’d come. Why did he have to look like an idiot?  
   
Almost as unbearably erotic to watch as Sherlock’s orgasm was their little mutual shiver as John gently disengaged. John leaned forward to give Sherlock a tender kiss, narrowly stopped himself from aiming for Sherlock’s mouth, instead giving him a little peck on the forehead. Sherlock smiled. Then, John whispered something in Sherlock’s ear, something that made Sherlock laugh. John got up, disappeared from view, and the video ended.  
   
“I would give _anything_ to know what I said just then,” John lamented. But he had at least gained one important piece of information: Sherlock was vulnerable to extraordinary emotional outbursts (like smiling) just after orgasm.  
   
Sherlock did not seem to want to acknowledge this weakness. He moved the conversation right along. “Take out your prick,” he ordered. “I want to see it, right now.”  
   
“Alright.” John turned slightly, sliding one knee up onto the sofa, and went for his zip. “Wait. Only if you take yours out as well.”  
   
“Deal.” Sherlock got up on both knees on the sofa and sat on his heels. They both sighed with relief as their painfully restrained cocks were released, caressed by the cool air of the room.  
   
Now that Sherlock was seated, and not lying on his back, John could see that the curve of his shaft was not some sort of illusion, or attributable to gravity. His cock had a significant upward sweep.  
   
“That,” John announced, “is going to hit my sweet spot without mercy, if I’m on my back. Oh God, I’ll be screaming myself hoarse.”  
   
The corners of Sherlock’s mouth crept slyly upward. “Are you a screamer, John?”

“I don’t bottom very often, but when I do I shriek like a banshee.”  
   
“I demand a demonstration. Now.”  
   
John stuffed himself back in his trousers. “Race you upstairs.”  
   
“Wait!” As John leapt from the sofa, Sherlock turned in the other direction to get something off the table. John ignored his pleas, continuing through the door and up the stairs. Shrugging at his imminent loss of the race, Sherlock sauntered upstairs, video camera in hand.


End file.
